


'Lucky' is a Flexible Term

by Lokei



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst and Humor, Holidays, M/M, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-13
Updated: 2008-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokei/pseuds/Lokei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second year Daniel spent on SG-1 was apparently the year Jack decided to make up for lost time and introduce Teal’c to the greatest day in the Irish calendar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Lucky' is a Flexible Term

**Author's Note:**

> For romanticalgirl’s “Getting Lucky” monthly challenge.

The first time St. Patrick’s day rolled around, post-return-to-Earth, Daniel and the rest of SG-1 missed it entirely, being stuck at the time dealing with a certain penitent Jaffa who was insisting on letting the residents of the current mudball put him on trial for crimes he couldn’t avoid. By the time they knocked around a few extra Jaffa, liberated the populace, and got Teal’c to put down the Horrible Backpack of Guilt (Jack’s term, not Daniel’s), it was March 19, and the stores were already into Easter candy, and Jack was sticking little plastic eggs with rude phrases hidden inside in Daniel’s desk drawers, artifacts, and locker. Daniel changed his locker combination. Jack figured it out within a week.

Business as usual, then.

= = =

The second year Daniel spent on SG-1 was apparently the year Jack decided to make up for lost time and introduce Teal’c to the greatest day in the Irish calendar. Fortunately the holiday fell on one of the team’s rare days of leave, so Jack threw an afternoon party, complete with Ireland’s flag composed of green and orange Jello with whipped cream in the middle, the Clancy Brothers and the Chieftains playing from the speakers at nearly top volume, and the traditional corned beef and boiled potatoes. Sam took one look at the gray meat and politely requested a larger helping of potatoes. Daniel put on his anthropologist’s face and chewed stoically, offered up the expected chicken jokes, and was duly threatened with a shower of green beer.

Teal’c stuck with the Jello.

But after the others were gone and Daniel had stayed behind to help clean up, Jack solemnly poured the remainder of the pitcher of odious green beer down the kitchen sink, pulled a Guinness out of the fridge with one hand and a Harp with the other and held them up with a tiny smile curving the corners of his lips.

Daniel took the Harp and Jack’s smile got a little bigger.

“Some things are just sacred, ya know?” Jack said quietly, padding into the living room in his Kelly green socks to turn the music down to a soft background, and settling into the couch cushions with a contented grunt.

“Well, it did start out a saint’s day,” Daniel agreed equably, knowing that that wasn’t at all what Jack meant. It didn’t matter. So when Jack was on his second Guinness and started talking about his grandmother and grandfather, fresh ‘off the boat,’ Daniel listened and made all the right noises and the hours slipped by like a rainbow in a breeze.

= = =

The third year it was just the two of them again. Sam, still not over the corned beef of the year before, staged an experiment in crisis to avoid Jack’s invitation, and Teal’c was off-world visiting his son. Jack hauled Daniel to an Irish pub in town and they discussed the fact that whether you were in Brussels, Berlin, Boston, or Bogota, you were likely to find at least one really good Irish pub. There was also music of the bodhran and electric guitar variety, which Daniel enjoyed and Jack found objectionable for the way they ‘slaughtered’ “The Wild Irish Rover,” for which he had a heretofore undisclosed affection.

Daniel heroically refrained from comment. He only wished Jack could have done the same when someone in the audience requested “Dannyboy,” which Jack seconded in an appallingly hearty voice. Next year, he was picking the entertainment.

= = =

They almost didn’t make it home to celebrate their fourth St. Patrick’s Day. The locals on P-don’t-deprive-me-of-my-Guinness-dammit had thrown a few well-aimed rocks, and only repeated sincere promises on Daniel’s part had kept Janet from keeping both of them in the infirmary an extra night. Daniel swore to keep Jack out of the Irish pubs, and Janet sent them packing with just enough time to make it to the production of The Last Hurrah that Daniel had procured tickets for months ago.

Fortunately Jack was in a remarkably mellow mood despite the ugly gash down his temple, and quite ready to be entertained by the fictional biography of James Michael Curley, Boston’s last great Irish political boss, who had been mayor and also governor, and notable for his colorful behavior. This included getting re-elected while serving time for taking someone else’s postal exam, and putting up green shutters with shamrock silhouettes in them on the front of his house in the very Anglo-Protestant neighborhood of Jamaica Plain. Daniel’s favorite Curley achievement was the declaring of March 17th as a Boston city holiday—ostensibly because that was ‘Evacuation Day,’ the day in 1776 when the British evacuated Boston during the Revolutionary War, but conveniently also a day Curley and pals could claim for themselves. Daniel appreciated a man who could make history serve his purposes to such a harmless and amusing end.

= = =  
The fifth year Daniel left a pot of shamrocks on Jack’s desk as a peace offering.

When he overheard Jack accusing Sam of leaving a jar of weeds on his desk, and Sam’s laughing denial of all knowledge of such a thing, he adjusted his course through the commissary tables away from his teammates and towards one of the new members of his department, sitting by herself. Tabitha Newton was an ancient Hindu scholar, and desirable company, because suddenly Daniel wasn’t in the mood to discuss anything related to the Celts, however distantly.

It seemed there were no four-leaf clovers in that pot after all.

= = =

The sixth year Jack was on SG-1 he spent March 17 crawling to the bottom of as many bottles of Harp as he could find.

= = =

The year that followed Daniel’s return to the corporeal plane, St. Patrick’s Day found him staring fixedly at Jack, who had appeared without invitation or warning on Daniel’s doorstep. He shifted a little from foot to foot and jiggled the six packs of Harp under one arm and Guinness under the other.

“Can I come in?”

Daniel blinked, finally. He was pretty sure he had most of his memories back by now, and it hurt more than he thought it would that Jack could sound so tentative. Daniel knew it had gotten bad between them, but things were looking up, weren’t they?

It was an odd evening—more because it probably should have been more awkward than it was, than anything. And even after a few hours of desultory conversation and on his second Harp of the evening, Daniel was pretty sure that didn’t exactly make sense. He wasn’t the lightweight Jack had deemed him that night after Abydos—shock and exhaustion and a complete inability to keep any food in his stomach had meant that his one beer had hit him hard, and he’d been bucking the ‘cheap date’ moniker ever since. He was nowhere near drunk enough at this moment in time to be imagining what he thought he was seeing in Jack’s face.

Which meant it might actually be there.

Daniel was reluctant to put a name to it, that extra life and animation that was back behind Jack’s eyes. For someone who was good with words, he’d never been very into definitions. Just the very root of that word—finite—drew lines and closed opportunities that Daniel preferred to keep open.

He hadn’t seen that nameless thing arcing between them in a long time. He was, however, not going to let go of it this time, cautionary tales of four-leaf clovers, leprechaun gold, and the putative luck of the Irish notwithstanding.

Daniel leaned forward on his new couch, and Jack echoed him from his side, closing the distance between them to well under two feet. “How’s your Guinness, Jack?”

Jack’s lips twitched in amusement. “It’s good, Daniel. You really could break down and try it sometime, see for yourself.” He took another sip.

Daniel bit his lip and leaned just that much closer. “Maybe I will,” he said softly, picking the glass out of Jack’s unresisting hand and putting it on the coffee table, while curling his other hand around Jack’s chin. Trying not to focus on how amazing it was that his hands were keeping steady, he leaned the last few inches and ran the tip of his tongue over Jack’s lips, which opened enough for him to slide forward and taste the dark, flat bitterness of the Guinness, and under it, defying definition, Jack.

It was over in a second, maybe two, and Daniel leaned back, hands shaking now as they clasped somewhat convulsively around the Harp bottle still tucked between his legs.

Jack’s eyebrows went up, but his fists didn’t clench and his eyes weren’t visibly angry. “Well, what did you think?”

Daniel was relieved to notice Jack’s voice was about as steady as the archaeologist’s hands. He gulped and summoned a grin from somewhere he hadn’t remembered he had.

“I think it’s a taste I could acquire pretty easily,” Daniel met Jack’s eyes and felt his grin turn real as Jack’s eyes warmed and it was his turn to lean in.

“Lucky for me.”


End file.
